


by the blood of the stars

by WingedFlight



Series: In Some Darker Age [5]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: (technically the son of the Lord Mavramorn seen in VODT), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, Northern Witches, grey morality, lion deity needs to stop using children for his dirty work, witchy jill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedFlight/pseuds/WingedFlight
Summary: Should the king fail to dissuade the challenger and his followers, he shall fall. And all Jill has done will be for nothing.
Series: In Some Darker Age [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1150886
Comments: 28
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Then four Knights, carrying something and going very slowly, appeared on deck. When they started to come down the gangway you could see what they were carrying: it was the old King on a bed, very pale and still. They set him down. The Prince knelt beside him and embraced him. They could see King Caspian raising his hand to bless his son. And everyone cheered, but it was a half-hearted cheer, for they all felt that something was going wrong. Then suddenly the King's head fell back upon his pillows, the musicians stopped and there was a dead silence. The Prince, kneeling by the King's bed, laid down his head upon it and wept.  
> \-- Silver Chair
> 
> She had been a great lady, wise and gracious and happy, King Caspian's bride whom he had brought home from the eastern end of the world. And men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.  
> \-- Silver Chair
> 
> This is the true King of Narnia we've got here: a true King, coming back to true Narnia. And we beasts remember, even if Dwarfs forget, that Narnia was never right except when a son of Adam was King.  
> \-- Prince Caspian

* * *

_There are travellers on the Ettinsmoor._

_Distant figures, their progress slow but steady across the rocky plateau. The tall one smells of the Marshlands. The short one smells of lion’s breath and the Eastern Sea. And the girl--the girl carries another scent beneath the lion’s, something tangy and interesting._

_Feet planted on the edge of the craggy cliff that serves as her watchtower, the Lady opens her mouth and inhales the wind. She tastes the travellers on her tongue and is pleased. “I think it may almost be time,” she tells the knight at her side, and he says nothing._

* * *

Spring’s thaw brings with it high winds and sleeting rain that floods the city streets. Travelling anywhere out of doors is a miserable affair, even worse than winter itself; Paravel’s people spend their days behind closed doors where the rumours and schemes fester.

Jill takes to the lonely eastern tower of the Cair, which was built with scholarship in mind but has become little more than a dusty storage for old books. She cares not for the tomes, but stands for hours at the open window looking out over the city while the rain beats upon her face. The tower is hardly tall enough to suit her needs, but it is the closest she can come to the dizzying height of Aslan’s Country. 

She descends again each evening, joining the court for dinners in the great hall. For all the opulence of the castle, these dinners are more often a hushed affair with soft conversations and unspoken entendres. There is a tension here, as well: the same as that brewing in the city below but hidden under the sheen of wealth and glory. 

One name she hears often on the edges of discussions in the lowered tones of risky gossip.

_Lord Mavramorn’s followers grow._

_Mavramorn has returned to Paravel._

_Mavramorn intends to challenge the king._

She hears it all, though she has been invited to share none of these confidences. The court sees her as a child still, for all that she has fetched the lost prince from the depths of the earth and undergone more trials than most could even imagine. She is the tragic heroine, successful only through sacrifice, watched with pitying eyes.

Jill pretends not to see their stares, and does not let on that she hears every word. She sits at the king’s table and speaks proudly of meaningless things, and tries not to dwell on the parallels between this hall and Harfang.

Late at night, after the king has retired from the court’s gaze, Jill finds him in his private rooms and tells him the secrets she has gleaned. “Your enemies dwell within the city walls and have infiltrated the court. When the rains cease, the riots will come. Lord Mavramorn is on his way.” 

“Lord Mavramorn has no rightful claim to the throne,” says the king. He watches the light of the flames dancing upon the stone hearth. “His challenge will fail.” Lifting his head, he meets her eyes and tells her again: “Lord Mavramorn and his supporters _will_ fail.” 

“I understand,” she tells him, and departs.

The rain does not cease. The restless tension grows. Jill waits and listens and gathers her strength. From her tower window, she counts the lights in the windows far below. From the king’s table, she notes those who will not meet her gaze. And in the king’s quarters, she provides her reports. 

“One day more,” a dwarf on staff informs her at last. “Then we’ll be done with this rain.” 

That night, she oils the string of her bow and counts the arrows in her quiver. She tests the blade of her dagger and then stares for a long time at the red bead of blood on her thumb. At last, tired but satisfied, she curls up beneath the covers of her bed and dreams of white-capped waves far below her feet.

* * *

The day dawns in the silence of held breaths and unreleased tension. Warm yellow sun paints the damp city in a fresh light, but few people roam the streets. All know what is coming and those with sense remain indoors to wait out this next storm. 

Jill spends the morning in her tower, watching the patterns of movement in the streets. When the sun reaches its highest point, she descends to join the king and his guards in the receiving hall. 

“We will not let Mavramorn step foot inside the Cair,” the king commands. “Hold him and his rabble at the gates. I will deal with them there.” 

She leaves him to his waiting. Outside the gates of the castle, a crowd is gathering. Jill tucks her bow beneath her cloak and finds a rooftop perch with a clear sightline and ample cover. She sets the quiver at her side, strings the bow, and settles in. 

It does not take long. 

Lord Mavramorn cuts through the masses, flanked by his family’s guards and the boldest of the nobility. When the gate remains barred in his path, he does not act surprised but shouts a demand for the king’s presence. His voice is clear and ringing with purpose; it is not hard to see why the people have been swayed by his claims. 

There is a brimming intensity to the people below. They are prepared to fight for their chosen leader, should it come to that. 

She prays it will not come to that. 

A stir heralds the king’s appearance on the battlements. He ignores the shouts of the crowd--not quite heckling, but not far from it either--and addresses his challenger: “What brings you to Paravel, Lord Mavramorn? Are your own lands not busy enough for your liking? Had you sent word of your trip, I would have welcomed you into my court.” 

“I have not come to join your court,” says Mavramorn. He speaks with deadly seriousness, a contrast to the sly hint of amusement in the king’s tone. “I have come to claim my rightful place on Narnia’s throne.” 

“Your rightful place?” repeats the king. “Tread carefully, sir. You venture towards treason.” 

“Yours is the treason,” says Mavramorn, “For you are a false king, a pretender to the throne who seized an opportunity as our late King Caspian lay upon his deathbed. You are not his son. And in the absence of Prince Rilian, I stand next in line for the throne.”

As he states his claim, the crowd’s rumblings grow. Guards atop the wall and soldiers on the ground lay hands to their weapons. Jill raises her bow as the sense of danger spikes. 

But if the king is worried, he does not show it. He looks out over all--Lord Mavramorn and his men, the nobles, the commoners--enfolding all into his awareness, catching all in the trap of his gaze. His eyes rise to Jill last, finding her where no other would look. The same thrill runs down her spine as the first time she saw him. This is a man who will do great and terrible things.

She steels herself, knowing what is to come. 

The king looks away from her again to address the churning, angry mob. “You want proof,” he says, and his voice is calm yet captivating, soft yet still heard by all. “You doubt my claim to the throne. What can I say to convince you? I am Rilian, son of Caspian, and that is all I can tell you. Let the Lion be my witness.”

Once upon a time, Jill met the Lion and was given a task: travel through the Northern lands and under a long-dead city to find a man and bring him back to the Narnian throne. And she did--though the way was fraught with pain and betrayal, she did as the Lion commanded. She found a man who swore by Aslan’s name; she accompanied him South and saw him claim the throne. After all this, today feels like the accumulation of her work, the climax of her task. Should the king fail to dissuade the challenger and his supporters, he shall fall.

And all Jill has done will be for nothing. 

The arrow strikes the king’s side. There is a cry, a gasp, a shout. He staggers, hunches. The world goes utterly still. 

From her position on the roof, Jill can see everything: his hand clenched to a fist, his face white with shock or pain, and the red stain already blooming across the underside of his right arm. There’s more shouting now, slightly panicked as half of the king’s guard move toward him while others cut a path into the crowd in search of the would-be assassin. The crowd responds with noise of their own, scared and angry and pushing dangerously forward.

Jill does not move save to lower her bow, does not pay the guards or the crowd any mind. Her concentration is fully upon the king’s wound. 

The noise swells, breaks, and then stutters into another stunned silence as one by one and then all at once, everyone notices what she already sees: the king’s blood is red, but it glows silver with the light of the stars. 

* * *

Jill lies awake for a long time, staring up at the canopy of her bed. The gauzy fabric has been embroidered with a pattern of vines that look to her eyes like twisting emerald serpents. She feels utterly drained yet untired, her spirit as restless as the crowd that afternoon. 

She can still see the flash of triumph in the king’s eyes once he’d returned to the Cair, waving away the over-zealous physician. Can still feel a surge of victory in her chest whenever she thinks that she has the power to influence events involving the greatest people of this country. Once, she’d been nothing but a grubby schoolgirl unable to stand her ground against childish bullies. Not anymore. 

The breeze from her open window sets the fabric snakes to dancing. Jill closes her eyes and centers her soul to listen to the rumours carried by the wind: 

_Rilian’s blood shone like the stars._

_He truly is the rightful king._

_Mavramorn has lost the support of the city._

She rolls onto her side and lets her eyes open again. The dark stone wall reminds her of the underworld, and her pride sinks into something softer. “I did it,” she whispers to the dancing snakes. “I wish you’d been here to see me.” 

The ghost of a trilling laugh floats through the room, and Jill cannot bear to lay still any longer. 

* * *

She makes for the foothills at the Northern border, taking the longer route along roads that skirt the marshes but otherwise travelling with great haste. There is no moon to light her path, but the stars are bright in the cloudless sky and her eyes are ever sharp. The world is still around her, only the rhythm of her horse’s hooves upon the ground to beat back the distant whine of the star-song she can almost make out.

And then at last: a trail leading from the main road, and a small clearing, and a little excavated cave. She dismounts to lead the mare beneath the ground. The stars light the entrance of the tunnel but there is only an aching darkness beyond, at the threshold of which she stops and takes a sharp breath. 

She has bested many frightening things, but the darkness of the sunken lands will never be her friend. 

Choosing a small stone from the path at her feet, Jill whispers a word and sets it shining. Soft but steady, and silver as the stars, the light illuminates the underground road that lays before her. She leads her horse forward again until the tunnel is tall enough for her to remount; then she rides on, always on and always deeper, back to the city below the earth. Her light never falters; it is an easy enough spell, and much simpler to cast upon a stone than on the blood of a living man.

* * *

_Four knights stand upon the gangplank, bearing a litter between them. A king lies there, old and weary but still sharp of mind. He hears the messenger’s words, sees the bold young man waiting on the dock. The knights carry him forward, and the man bends to embrace the king._

_The man says, “My father, I have returned.”_

_Pain pierces the king’s neck where the man’s hand had settled for only a second. The king tries to cry out, but the invisible grip tightens. He cannot breathe, he cannot speak._

_He cannot warn the knights at his side that he has been poisoned by a fraud._

_All he can do is raise a hand, trembling and desperate. An accusation understood only by the fraud himself, and the girl watching from the depths of the crowd._

* * *

More hours pass. Jill’s weariness returns until even her simple silver light begins to flicker. The tunnel grows dimmer, and she begins to contemplate halting for a rest when she sees it: far ahead, but not as far as she’d feared, the cold grey-and-blue lights of the sunken city. 

She presses on. 

Earthmen swarm the streets, as silent and sad as always. Jill tries to ignore this crowd, so different from the one in Paravel only half a day ago. She passes swiftly through the city. In the courtyard, she leaves her horse in a waiting gnome’s care and moves into the grand halls of the Lady’s castle.

The Lady is here, waiting for her. Jill can feel her presence singing its serpent song in her blood. She can feel the Lady’s approval, and yearns to return to her presence. She wants the Lady to tell her she has done well, to reward her with further training in the dark magicks of this world.

_Done well indeed, my child._

_Come to me._

_I am waiting._

But instead of taking the winding steps up to the Lady’s chambers, Jill turns to a darker stairwell and travels further down. The stones are roughly hewn, the passage narrow, and the light dim enough that she almost reignites her spell upon a fresh stone. Then she reaches the iron door at the base of the steps, and opens it to a lonely cellblock lit by more glowing grey lights.

At last, she reaches the sole occupied cell and stops. The flickering torchlight on the wall barely illuminates the profile of the prisoner who sits within, back to wall and knees to chest. He must know she is there but he makes no move to acknowledge her presence, not even when she clears her throat uncertainly and takes a step nearer. 

“If this was wrong,” she asks at last, “Wouldn’t Aslan have stopped me?” 

His face remains stony, and he does not answer. 

But she cannot bear it any longer, keeping her arguments on the inside. “Narnia is never right but when a son of Adam is on the throne. All the Narnians believe it. But Caspian’s son _wasn’t_ fully human; his mother was the daughter of a star! He wasn’t right for the throne. He wasn’t fit to rule.” 

His expression doesn’t change. Jill’s heart quails. _This was a mistake,_ she thinks, turning away. 

Only when she returns to the end of the corridor does she hear the prisoner speak in a voice hoarse from dust and disuse. “If you’re doing what Aslan wants and Narnia needs, you shouldn’t have to hide your actions. He shouldn’t have needed to trick his way onto the throne.” 

She does not look back. “You will _never_ understand, will you?”

“Why did you come?” he asks. “Do you know?”

“I wanted to give you another chance--” 

“You feel ashamed, and you want forgiveness.” His harsh laugh echoes hollow in the cell. “You won’t get it from me.” 

“You do not dictate my shame, Eustace Clarence,” she spits, and lets the heavy iron door slam shut behind her. 

* * *

_There are overlanders in the sunken city._

_The Lady greets them in her private dining chambers, lets them feast and rest and warm themselves by the fire. She watches the girl, that interesting girl, until the time is right to pull her aside and whisper promises of power and strength._

_“Have you not followed the Signs?” the Lady asks. “Hasn’t your task led you to my door? I have the prince that Narnia needs. Help me deliver him to his country. Help me ensure his rule. And in my gratitude, I will teach you all the things that I know.”_

_The girl looks back to her companions by the fire. And though she knows they would not agree, she sets her jaw and makes her choice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, after years of letting it stew in the back of my mind, I have put to paper my headcanon that the so-called Rilian is a total fraud who killed Caspian.


	2. in the silence of a sunken land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life has been an accumulation of fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But in one respect [the Earthmen] were all alike: every face in the whole hundred was as sad as a face could be. They were so sad that, after the first glance, Jill almost forgot to be afraid of them. She felt she would like to cheer them up.  
> "Well!" said Puddleglum, rubbing his hands. "This is just what I needed. If these chaps don't teach me to take a serious view of life, I don't know what will.”  
> \-- Silver Chair

* * *

_The children are arguing again. Not surprising in the slightest, there being little else to occupy their attention during this long and arduous trek. Besides, he is well aware that a majority of quests end with in-fighting, betrayal and slaughter; and so shall this one, if they aren’t careful._

_The Ettinsmoor appears devoid of any other life on this dreary morning. The giants have moved off, slow and lumbering as always. The only wildlife in sight was a single eagle that wheeled briefly overhead before vanishing beyond the horizon. Nothing stirs in the underbrush._

_But he’s always been a wiggle with a sharp eye on the horizon, so he sees the movement on the distant cliff ahead. A monster, he shouldn’t wonder, or the scout of a vicious wolf pack, or probably some scheming villain intent on tearing their group asunder._

_“Steady on, you two,” he tells the children, “This land is too quiet for my liking. A perfect place for an ambush, I shouldn’t wonder.”_

_And though the children don’t especially believe him, they cease their bickering for the time being._

* * *

One can get used to nearly anything, given enough time. Eustace has more than enough of that, at least. Time is about all he has now: minutes upon days upon months, all sliding together in a long and slow monotony until even the tally marks upon the wall have lost their meaning. 

He occupies himself, sometimes, with imagining the structural makeup of the world. Born on a spherical planet, he’d read all sorts of geology books detailing how soil becomes stone becomes magma the closer one gets to the core. But here he is, trapped far far below the outer crust of a world that is flat--and there are days when it nearly drives him mad, not knowing how exactly that even works. 

Once upon a time, he had sailed to the end of this flat world and marvelled at its strangeness. Once, he had stood upon the highest cliff on the edge of Aslan’s Country and looked out over all, and had felt his insignificance so deeply that the memory still gives him shivers. 

His life has been an accumulation of fears. He’d never been afraid of heights before becoming a dragon; had, in fact, thought soaring high above the seas the only really decent part of the whole experience. He’d revelled in freedom and awe. And then had come the undragoning, and a gradual realisation that he no longer had the wings to catch him should he fall. 

Jill had balked when told to crawl through smaller and smaller tunnels leading deeper and deeper into the ground, and he’d told her pointedly that that was what he’d felt on the cliff overlooking the world. But now, gradually, he has come to know her fear--not through comparison but personally and intimately. He feels the weight of the world overhead, layer upon layer of rock and soil between himself and the sun. Sometimes, he wakes with a start, certain the walls of his cell are closer than before, certain they will continue to close upon him until he is trapped in this tomb until the end of days. 

He has learned to dread one thing more: the tread of soft slippers upon the stone floor. For all he hates the visitor, he does not fear her presence; what scares him to his core is how the absence of any other human connection has set him craving each word she speaks. 

* * *

“Tell me about the time the world was cast in ice,” she requests once. 

He looks up from his book, a collection of essays by Calormene scholars regarding changes to the continent’s shorelines over the last thousand years. (Not exactly what he’d been hoping for when he’d asked for something on geology, but beggers have never been choosers.) “You mean Narnia’s winter? The White Witch?” His voice grows colder. “I’d have thought you’d have other means of learning all about _that._ ” 

“I want to hear you tell it.” 

She stands at the bars, looking in with her slate-grey eyes. He studies her face but her expression remains as inscrutable as always. “I wasn’t there. You know that.” 

“But you’ve been with those who were.” 

His cousins, the greatest rulers of Narnian history. Victors against the White Witch, heralds of the Golden Age, heroic legends who returned after a thousand years to set their country to rights. He doesn’t like to think of them, to remember how inadequate he is in comparison. He could not imagine any one of them remaining trapped in a little cell like this. At the least, they’d have escaped long ago, though he suspects they would never have gotten caught in the first place. 

“I’ve told you before, they’re nothing special.” An oft-repeated lie familiar to them both. When she continues to stand there, he asks, “Why?” 

He never knows whether she’ll answer his questions--thinks, for a moment, that silence will be the only answer to this one. But then she lifts her hand to the metal bar. 

Frost blooms in fractal patterns from her fingertips, and an unnatural chill creeps through the air. 

There are many things he could say to this. _Congratulations, you’re evil,_ is the one that first comes to mind, although that’s already been confirmed a hundred times over by now and doesn’t really need repeating. _Keep your bloody magic away from me,_ is another line he’s used plenty already. _How?_ is a question that always echoes through his thoughts, though he’s managed not to put voice to it yet. 

“Got tired of lights and eavesdropping, then?” he asks at last, and watches the way her mouth twists just a little before she releases the bar. The white patterns remain around the four black ovals where her fingers had touched. He wonders in the back of his mind just how cold the temperature of the metal is now. 

“The witch was evil. She kept Christmas out and everyone miserable. That good enough for you?” 

“From what I’ve heard,” she says, “It wasn’t the magic itself that was bad. It was her. _She_ was evil. The magic was just a tool, like a sword or an army.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Do you ever actually come for my opinion? Or am I just the only captive audience available to listen to your weak justifications?” 

Her nostrils flare, and she spins about and storms off. Eustace remains on his cot until the door at the end of the hall swings shut, then moves quietly to the front of the cell. A quick look confirms the corridor to now be empty, and he brings his attention to the iron bar his visitor had so briefly grasped. 

The frost is gone from its surface but it’s still colder than its neighbours, though only by a few degrees. He returns to his cot, picks up the book of essays and his crude pencil, and starts to work out an equation in the margins. 

* * *

_The Earthmen need no lights in their world. But their queen orders scores of glowing green-blue orbs to illuminate her kingdom, and the Earthmen oblige. They light the globes with flickering witch-flames, hoist them on every street corner, and ache with nostalgia for a heat they no longer remember._

* * *

There is no point in talking to the rotation of Earthmen that bring his meals. The lines they speak are so often repeated that they could have been learned from a script. Besides which, the Earthmen are all miserable; not like Puddleglum, who was so pessimistic it somehow became comforting, but just radiating a cold and dreary sadness. Their mood feels infectious sometimes, so much so that he dreads their brief company on his own most depressed days. 

He wonders why he hasn’t been bewitched like these sad, solemn Earthmen. Or worse, why he hasn’t just been killed outright. 

He can’t ever bring himself to ask.

Instead, whenever the question of it threatens to overwhelm him, he throws himself back into his book, his equations, his plans. He studies, and he thinks, and he waits and waits and waits until at last he thinks he might just have a chance--

* * *

_The fire crackles in the hearth when the Earthmen show their prisoners into the room. The children keep close to their guardian’s side, still wary though the room is well lit and food has been laid upon the table. A man welcomes them, promising that his Lady will be there shortly._

_The wiggle draws the children forward with him to warm themselves by the fire. “Beware,” he says, too soft for their strange host to overhear, “This place smells of magic and lies. It would be just like this Lady to wait until we are feeling comfortable before springing her trap upon us.”_

_“We’ll be careful,” says the boy, “Won’t we, Pole?”_

* * *

She leans casually against the wall across from his cell, watching him through the bars. “It’s better up there, you know. There’s no war, no rebellion. We’ve kept the country stable.” 

He doesn’t look over. The tally-marks on the wall of his cell have been covered over in white-chalk equations that he is busy reviewing for errors. There’s no need; he’s gone over his work enough times that the only thing left is a practical test. But he’d rather pretend to be engrossed in his work than admit he’s been looking forward to her visit. 

“It’s almost summer again,” she continues. “The rains have finally stopped.” 

Without turning, he asks, “Is this supposed to be torture? Or has your witch failed to teach you decent conversational skills?” 

“If you weren’t so thick, you’d realize I’m trying to extend an olive branch.” 

At this absurd statement, he finally faces her. “No, you’re doing the same thing you always do: trying to convince me that your way was the right way.” 

Her posture stiffens. “I was _going_ to suggest that maybe we could put this stupid argument behind us. What’s done is done. The country is at peace. So long as you agree not to stir up trouble, maybe you can leave this place.” 

He crosses the cell and knocks a fist against a metal bar to set it ringing. “Most _stupid arguments_ don’t involve _wrongful imprisonment_ just so you can _get your way.”_

Ice shoots from her fingertips. He does not know whether it was brought forth by cold rage or whether she was simply startled by his action; it doesn’t really matter, either way. He’s forced to leap back as some of the ice strikes his chest, more coating the bar directly in front of him. The spray of it lasts only a second, but the air itself has grown cold enough that he can now see his shaky breaths in the blue light. 

“Decided to just kill me after all?” he says, and his voice trembles a little for all that he tries to keep it steady. 

Her face has gone sickly pale. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth moves but no words come forth, until at last she whirls about on her heel and flees. 

He waits until he no longer hears her steps. Then he lifts his stool and smashes it against the frozen metal bar of his cell. 

The bar shatters. 

All metals have a breaking point if their temperature is cold enough.

* * *

_The Lady has never thought herself evil; she simply has different priorities than most. When the girl asks that her companions be spared, the Lady does not press the point. She bewitches the wiggle and sets him to work in her city, but the boy she places in a dungeon cell where the girl can visit whenever she chooses._

_The Lady does not tell her new apprentice that this is a lesson: those who do not try to understand will turn on you in the end._

* * *

Eustace stands on a beach of pebbles where the water laps weakly at his toes, and remembers another shore cast in darkness. He can almost hear the haunting voices of the distant past: _an island where dreams come true… row… don’t stop!..._

In another life, for too short a time, he was a sailor. Now, he finds that the skills have not entirely left him. His fingers are nimble on the mooring rope knots, and he finds his footing easily upon leaping into the small rowboat. It is the work of a moment to set the oars in their braces, and then the boat is gliding out into the darkness as he watches the sunken city grow small. 

He does not know where he is going, and does not particularly care, so long as it is away. He has in the pack at his feet torches and flint but does not dare a light while the city glows in the distance. The only sound is the soft creak of the oars and the gentle whisper of water against the hull.

His muscles remember the movements, but so long in the cell has robbed him of the strength he’d gained crossing the Ettinsmoor. He rows until his arms are trembling, then stows the oars and rests. The city is still visible, but the lights of the castle have vanished, presumably blocked by some low-hanging ceiling above this underground sea. He dares not touch his stolen provisions yet, not knowing how long he will need them, but a quick test of the water confirms that the sea is not salt. He scoops it with the palms of his hand and drinks. 

He is just about to resume his rowing when a sound like a distant scream disturbs the silence. Eustace pulls the oars back in just as the wind strikes his boat with a frigid fury. 

He remembers again Caspian’s coarse command: _Row...don’t stop…!_

And as fast as it had struck, the storm is over. 

He is not entirely sure whether the wind was an outburst or some type of seeking spell. He does not wait to find out. The oars dip beneath the rippling waves and he carries on. 

* * *

Finally, the last gleam of the sunken city is gone. 

He is in the dark for a long, long time after that. 

* * *

_No two Earthmen look alike. Some are tall and others short, some have tails and others not, some have great beards and some have round faces like pumpkins. Some are good at digging, others at carrying, and others at leading great armies through the pitch-dark of the sunken lands._

_All of them, no matter their differences, are invariably sad._

_Except, perhaps, for one: a tall fellow with a great pointed hat who has found a position in the queen’s kitchen. He is taller than most, and spindly, and his hands are webbed like a frog. He is sad like all Earthmen; unlike the others, his sadness is not soul-deep. He is in the kitchen stirring a pot of eel stew when he hears the alarm at the prisoner’s escape._

_He thinks to himself that the poor fellow is likely to get lost in the dark to die of starvation or be buried under falling rocks. He does not expect the prisoner to make it to the surface again._

_Gradually, the sunken land falls silent again as the Earthmen return to their tasks. In the days that follow, the prisoner is forgotten. After all, many fall to the underworld, but few return to the sunlit lands._

* * *

Summer passes and autumn fades. When the winter begins to melt away, Jill emerges from the underworld at last and returns to Cair Paravel. She climbs the winding staircase to the top of her favourite tower. She stands there for a long time, listening and watching.

But she does not hear him approach, so concerned is she with the city below. He treads carefully forward, rolling from heel-to-toe in his soft leather shoes like his cousins once taught him, until he’s right up behind her. He can feel the cold air on his face, can feel the memory of a cliff’s edge clench at his heart. 

He freezes in place, just for a moment, just long enough for a slow breath. But even that is too long. Whether she hears him or senses his presence or is simply finished at the window, Jill begins to turn. 

There is no time for finesse. Eustace lunges forward that last step. His right palm hits her in the chest; his left forearm blocks her startled reach for the opened shutter. The physics of momentum and gravity do the rest, pulling her out into the open air over the city they both love in such terribly different ways. 

For all that it must happen quickly, every second takes a lifetime. Her eyes widening at the sight of him. Her lips parting as her balance is lost. The wisps of her hair tangling about her face as she leans out into the sky. Her hands, empty and grasping and finding nothing--

He hates her more than anything, and he realizes this: 

His greatest fear of all is a world without her.


End file.
